


A Marauder's Map

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, MWPP Era, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-21
Updated: 2005-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven memories from Sirius Black's pensieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Marauder's Map

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://sirius_loving.livejournal.com/profile)[**sirius_loving**](http://sirius_loving.livejournal.com/) 2005.

**Wednesday, 1 September 1971, 7.48 PM**

"Black, Sirius."

The Great Hall is loud, and Sirius thinks it's the largest room he has ever seen. Wax drips down from one of the candles overhead, landing next to his shoe with a sound like rain. A short, round boy fidgets nervously in front of him; Sirius can't remember his name, but he'd offered Sirius a Chocolate Frog on the train.

" _Black, Sirius_."

A curious silence falls over the room, and another boy from the train -- Sirius thinks his name is Potter -- nudges him in the ribs. Potter's elbow comes again, and Sirius looks up, finds the sour, tartan lady frowning at him sharply. Her lips are pressed together in a thin, white line, and something flutters quietly in Sirius' stomach.

He pushes through the crowd of First Years, past the short, round boy who flashes him an anxious, watery smile, and a Muggle-born girl with hair bright enough for a Weasley. He steps on her foot as he squeezes between her and another girl, and she hisses. He pauses, but his apology is cut short by his mother's voice, harsh and cold, reminding him that Muggles are beneath his notice.

The room seems to grow as he crosses it, stretching in front of him, and he hears a murmur from the Slytherin table, from his family. He doesn't look over, but he can see them out of the corner of his eye. Andromeda's smile is soft, but Narcissa's is cold, and Bellatrix's has an edge like a knife.

The tartan lady, still frowning, points him to a short, wooden stool. He tugs at his hair -- clipped short by Kreacher only this morning -- and sits, folding his hands in his lap. The hat drops low on his head, scratchy and rough, smelling of dust and old things.

"Ah yes, another Black."

The voice is soft and small, nowhere and everywhere at once, and Sirius catches himself searching for it under the shadow of the brim. He sees nothing but battered grey fabric, and tries to remember how to breathe.

"Nervous, are you?"

 _A little_ , Sirius thinks. His palms are sweaty, damp, and he rubs them irritably on his robes.

"I've Sorted your whole family," the hat says.

"Slytherins," Sirius whispers. He's not quite sure what it means to be Slytherin, but he thinks of the collection in his mother's library -- Slytherin ties, Slytherin prefect badges, yellowed letters from Slytherin Heads of House stamped with a green and silver seal -- and he can't imagine being anything else.

"Let's see, here," the hat says. "You're a sly one, aren't you? Cunning and ambitious, and smart as a whip. But brave, yes. Very brave, and you can have a kind heart when you choose to." The hat falls silent, and Sirius peeks under the brim, sees the tartan lady twisting her fingers impatiently in her skirt. "Interesting."

Sirius isn't sure he likes the sound of that. He thinks of Narcissa, Sorted only last year, who'd said the hat had named her for Slytherin before it was properly on her head, and he feels sick.

"Very interesting," the hat says suddenly. "Well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose."

A chill sweeps over Sirius' skin, and he wonders if the tartan lady can hear his heart beating.

" _GRYFFINDOR!_ "

There's a gasp from the Slytherin table, from his family, and he thinks of Regulus waving to him from Platform 9 3/4, the sleeves of their father's old Slytherin robes spilling past his wrists. The tartan lady pulls the hat off his head, and he closes his eyes against the bright burn of red and gold.

**Saturday, 21 April 1973, 1.26 PM**

They find Remus upstairs.

He's standing next to his bed in Hospital Wing pyjamas, bandaged hands peeking out of the wide cuffs, and the blue and white stripes make him seem small and pale. The cut on his cheek is pink, freshly healed, and he's been missing three days running.

James is the one who figured it out, who realised that Remus always runs off when they have full moon lessons in Astronomy. Sirius is a bit jealous that he didn't notice it first -- Remus' disappearances have always bothered him, but he's never thought to put a pattern to them.

"Remus," James says quietly. He sits on his trunk; a dirty sock waits next to his knee, hanging limply off the corner. "You missed lunch."

"I wasn't hungry," Remus replies lightly. He glances at Sirius and Peter, who are blocking the door, then back to James. "I'm not feeling very well."

"Again?" Sirius asks. "You were just sick a couple of weeks ago."

"Four weeks ago," James presses. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and frowns at Remus like he's a bit of Potions homework.

"And you're all banged up," Peter adds. "Again."

"I am not," Remus protests. He looks away from James, studying the floor, and curls his hands in on himself, hiding the evidence up his sleeves. "I am not."

"Right," Sirius says, taking a step forward. "Let me see your hands, then." He reaches out, and Remus shies away. "Remus," Sirius insists irritably. "Let me see!"

"No," Remus says. "It's nothing. I just--"

"Can't use fell down the stairs, mate," James warns. "You used that last month."

"I was... I went to..." Remus chews at his lower lip, and spots of colour bloom on his cheeks. "My aunt--"

"She died already," Peter says, wringing his hands. James and Sirius are upset that Remus has been lying to them this whole time, but Peter is upset that they might be right. "May of first year, and again this October."

"And if you say your Mum beats you, I'm telling Dumbledore so you don't have to go home any more," James adds.

Remus falls silent, hugging himself, and he watches them warily, like a cornered animal. He's shivering, terrified, and for a moment, Sirius thinks they should just forget it, wants to tell James to leave Remus alone.

"What do you want me to tell you?" Remus asks finally. He rubs at his cheek, and blood wells from the cut, sluggish and bright. Sirius moves toward him, but James is already there with an old shirt.

"I want you to tell us the truth," James says quietly. He dabs at the cut, and Remus winces, but James catches his chin in his other hand.

"I can't," Remus says. He takes a deep breath, and his eyes slide closed. "I promised."

"We already know," Sirius insists. "We figured it out." He finds himself at Remus' side, and he wraps his arm around Remus' shoulders. "Well, James did, but we think he's right."

"Figured what out?" Remus asks. He tries to move away, but trapped between James and his bed, with Sirius on one side, he can't manage it.

"You're a werewolf," James says simply.

There is silence then, except for Peter, who makes a funny, choked noise in the back of his throat. Sirius had believed James right away, but Peter had needed to be convinced, twitching every time James said the word, and Sirius thinks Peter is not as comfortable with the idea as he wants James to think.

Silently, Remus nods.

"You should have told us," James says fussily. Remus' cut isn't bleeding any more, but James is still prodding it.

"I couldn't," Remus argues. He pushes James away, and the bloody shirt falls to the floor. "Dumbledore made me promise. I'm not even supposed to be here." He tries to shrug off Sirius' arm, but Sirius snatches a handful of his pyjama top. "And I didn't think... I wasn't sure if you would--"

"Did you think we'd care?" Sirius asks.

"Yes," Remus admits.

"Well, we don't," James argues. "Do we?" Sirius shakes his head, and after a sharp look from James, Peter mumbles something agreeable.

"The Ministry says--"

"Bugger the Ministry," James snaps.

"Dangerous," Remus finishes.

Sirius steps around to stand next to James, thinking of what he's heard about werewolves from his parents and what he's read in his schoolbooks. He thinks of teeth and fur and claws and blood, but when he looks up, he sees the boy who has lied to McGonagall for him and smuggled him food when he missed dinner because of detention, sees the boy who added two inches to his Charms essay when he fell asleep writing it.

He sees _Remus_.

"You should have said something," Sirius insists. "You're our friend."

**Monday, 5 November 1973, 6.32 PM**

The door creaks open and closed for no one, pushed and pulled by invisible hands. Sirius looks up, watches the empty space expectantly, setting his mostly blank star chart aside. The room fills with the muffled sounds of feet shuffling across carpet, then there is James, only James, all riotous hair and a handful of quicksilver cloth.

"Where's Remus?" Sirius asks sharply. Remus is too responsible and boring to do anything but play look-out, and Sirius is unhappy that James took Remus on this prank -- that James chose Remus instead of him.

"McGonagall." James replies. He kicks open his trunk with his foot, dropping the cloak inside, and Sirius realises he's also carrying an armful of books.

"What?" Peter asks. He sets aside his star chart, and Sirius frowns. From what Sirius can see, it looks more complete than his own.

"She came down the hall and found him standing next to a collapsed suit of armour," James explains. He dumps the books on his bed and flops down next to them.

"And you just left him?" Sirius asks. He's almost glad he didn't go with James after all.

"Well, I was under the cloak, and he wasn't," James says simply. "Besides, I needed to get rid of him."

James pulls a book from the pile and tosses it to Sirius. It's old, the kind of book his parents would have in their library -- cracked spines and brittle, yellow pages, written with Y's instead of I's and too many E's. True to his guess, the title reads _Transfygurations of the Soule_ , and he lifts and eyebrow at James before opening it.

"What's this rubbish?" Sirius asks. According to the title page, it had been written by one Alabastor Johanson Goatsmythe in the year MDCCCXCVI.

"Remember, in Transfigurations today, when McGonagall went kitty?" James asks.

"Yeah," Sirius says, and he smiles, thinking of Aria Moss' tea cosy, which she'd turned into a mouse instead of a wedge of cheese. He can still picture McGonagall, who'd shifted into a cat to catch it, strolling back up to her desk with the thing squeaking between her teeth.

"Well, it got me thinking about that thing we talked about the other day," James says. "I know Remus says he's used to it, and that, but he's come back pretty cut up the last couple of moons. I think he'd be better off if he didn't have to be alone."

"Do you think we can do it?" Peter asks. "The Ministry won't even let you apply for a permit until you are twenty-five."

"Sod the Ministry," James says. "What to they know? They think Remus is dangerous, too."

"Well, he _is_ ," Peter says sensibly. "He'd eat you, you know, if he caught you on the full moon."

"Yeah, all right," James snaps. He rolls over, and Sirius can't see his face, but he must be glowering, because Peter's nose twitches nervously. "But only once a month, and only if he comes across people. The rest of the time he's normal, but the Ministry doesn't think he should go to school and stuff like that, so they're stupid."

Sirius can't argue with that kind of logic, so he opens his book to the first chapter, _Preparation of the Bodye and Minde_. James tosses a book at Peter, then opens one for himself. A strange sort of silence follows, broken by the rasp of turning pages, and Sirius does his best to decipher Goatsmythe's looping, wandering hand.

"James," he says suddenly. "This tosser says it's going to take five or six years."

"What?" James asks.

"I, myself, managed this Transformation successfully in four years, but only with constant practise and diligent study," Sirius reads. "For the average wizard, the change from human to Animagus can take five to six years."

"We're not average," James says, shrugging. "I bet you we can do it in four, same as him."

"This here says people have died trying," Peter adds.

"So?" James asks.

"It's dangerous," Peter replies.

"Everything is dangerous," James argues. "You could die going to class, if a staircase swings the wrong way. You could die playing Quidditch--"

"I don't play Quidditch," Peter reminds.

"Only because you're afraid to try out," Sirius says. He turns to chapter two, _Spelles, Sygils and Incantations_ , and grins at James. "I say we do it in three. Maybe two."

"What's your hurry, then?" James asks.

"Well, the sooner the better," Sirius says, thinking of how Remus looked last week -- purple bruise under one eye and a knife-like cut that sliced him from left nipple to navel. "Remus is getting uglier every month."

**Tuesday, 18 March 1975, 11.08 PM**

The corridor is dark, gloomy. Two torches fight the shadows, flickering softly with a light that is too feeble to reach the floor. It's strangely stuffy, almost warm, and the four of them don't fit under the cloak the way they once did.

They don't fit inside the niche behind the one-eyed witch the way they once did, either. Remus' hair is in his mouth, and Peter -- still nervous about sneaking around after four years -- clings to him, fingers twisting in the sleeve of his shirt. James presses against his side with an elbow catching him repeatedly in the ribs, and the witch's marble broomstick bores a hole into the small of his back.

"Budge over," James hisses.

"Where do you want me to go, then?" Sirius snaps. "Remus' pocket?"

"Like you'd fit, Mister Two Treacles at Dinner," Remus murmurs. He manages, somehow, to twist his arm behind him and poke Sirius in the belly.

"Who's talking?" Sirius asks. He squirms away from Remus' questing finger, which shoves Peter into James. James shoves back, which pushes Sirius into Remus, and Remus into the one-eyed witch. "I'm not the boy who grew a foot last weekend."

"What does it matter how tall I am?" Remus demands. It's a bit muffled; Sirius suspects he has a mouthful of marble elbow.

"We fit under the cloak better when you were shorter," Sirius says. "Besides, I'm tired of looking at your socks when you walk."

"My socks match, at least," Remus returns. "You wore a blue one and a black one today, and I know, because you took your shoes off in Transfiguration."

"That's what the smell was?" Peter asks.

"Why don't you lot shut up?" James offers.

"Why don't you make me?" Sirius replies, giving James an elbow back for good measure. He stumbles, groping at Sirius' shoulder for balance, but falls, pulling Peter down with him. Peter kicks Sirius in the back of the leg as he topples over, but it's worth it, and Sirius snickers into Remus' shoulder until James stands and smacks Sirius in the back of the head.

"I'll kill you, Black," James threatens. "One of these days."

"You'd miss me," Sirius says loftily. "After one prank with bookworm here, you'd be begging for me back. And you'd hate yourself for ruining Gryffindor's chances when you got stuck with Peter playing Beater."

"Hey!" Peter protests.

"I'd get away with it, too," James goes on, ignoring them both. "No one would think of me at all, and if I put your body in that funny room on the fourth floor, you'd not be found for _years_."

"Here's an idea," Remus says, his voice thin and strained, as though he's trying not to laugh. "Why don't we get this over with so I can finish my Potions essay before sunrise?"

"Right," James whispers.

He steps out of the niche, taking most of the cloak with him, and the others do their best to follow. It's slow going, between the poor light and the restrictive amount of space. Remus' hair is still in Sirius' mouth, but James keeps his elbows and knees to himself, and while Peter's fingers remain lost in Sirius' sleeve, he manages to only step on Sirius' heel on every fifth step.

The Great Hall is darker than the corridor. The Slytherin banner looms against the far wall; the green is shadowed to black, and the one torch sputtering over the Head Table tarnishes the silver to something that is not quite copper, not quite gold.

"Where does Snivellus sit, then?" James asks.

"About here," Sirius says, waving his hand. He makes a wide circle over the bench, careful not to touch the wood.

"Remus, you got the spell?" James asks.

"Yeah," Remus says, pulling a slip of parchment from his pocket. Charming the bench to fart when sat on was James' idea, but Remus had been the one who beat the spell into submission.

Remus eyes the bench for a moment, then flicks his wand, sketching a lopsided triangle in the air.

" _Trumpetous Melodious Major_ ," Remus says, a bit loudly, thrusting his wand at the bench like a sword.

"Melodious Major?" James asks. "That's not the spell you showed me!"

"Similar," Remus replies, shrugging.

"Similar?" Sirius repeats, frowning. "What did you do to it?"

"Well," Remus says slowly, a smile playing across his lips. "Snape could fart, or he could fart God Save the Queen."

Sirius snorts, imagining Snivellus' ugly, enraged face, and behind him, Peter snickers quietly into his hand. James, practically wheezing, sinks breathlessly onto the bench.

" _GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS QUEEN! LONG LIVE OUR--_ "

" _Finite Incantatem_!" Remus hisses.

"Brilliant!" Sirius chokes. "You're bloody brilliant, mate!"

"Yes, well," Remus murmurs, blushing slightly. "Up you go, James," he adds, hauling James off the bench by his arm. " _Trumpetous Melodious Major_."

"Wait," Peter says, pointing at James. "If James set it off, then it will work for anyone? What if someone else sits there? I mean, he usually sits about here, but they don't have assigned seating, or anything."

"Oh, that's easy," James says, pulling his wand. His face is red, and the lenses of his glasses glint in the torchlight. " _Specificus Severus Snape_. Now anyone else will feel the need to sit elsewhere."

"We should get back," Remus says quickly. "Someone might've heard that."

"Right," James says. He lifts the cloak and shakes it out.

"Wait, wait," Sirius says, grabbing Remus' arm. "Since we're here, can we do Regulus, too?" he asks. He's not said his brother's name in months, and it feels strange to his mouth, foreign.

"Oh, if I must," Remus replies. He wanders down the bench a bit, as the younger students sit below the older students, and pulls his wand. " _Trumpetous Melodious Minor_."

"Minor?" Sirius asks. "You're not going easy on him, are you?"

"Of course not," Remus says. " _Specificus Regulus Black_."

"What did you do, then?" Sirius asks.

"I gave him the harmony," Remus says, smiling. "No sense in them farting the same part."

**Thursday, 25 December 1975, 5.51 AM**

Sirius wakes to James' owl pecking his forehead.

"Geroff!" Sirius grumbles, batting it away. It makes a disgruntled sound, and nips at his hand. "Potter, get your bloody bird off me!"

"James isn't here, Sirius."

Groaning, Sirius yanks his curtains all the way open and glares murder at Remus, who is still in bed. He has his blankets pulled up to his chin, and seems to be nothing more than a misshapen lump capped in a cloud of sandy hair.

"Where the hell is he?" Sirius demands, peering out the window. The sky is still grey, threaded with the barest hint of orange, which means it's too early to think.

"Holiday," the blankets reply. "Where he's been for almost a week."

"Right, Christmas," Sirius mutters. He'd decided to stay at school, because his last letter from home -- a Howler -- had made returning for the holidays seem rather unappetising. He'd not wanted to intrude on the Potters' trip to Majorca, even though both James and Mrs Potter had offered, and he'd not been sure he could handle two straight weeks of just Peter.

Mainly, he'd stayed for Remus, because Remus couldn't go home. School had let out for the holiday the evening after the full moon, and Remus hadn't thought he'd be fit for an eight-hour train ride so soon after his transformation. He'd thought right -- they'd remained in the Shrieking Shack until well after dinner; Remus napping most of the day and Padfoot curled around him.

Sirius sits up, and James' owl flutters to his lap. It coos at him, ruffling its wings, but Sirius, wary, keeps his hands and arms well away from it.

"What do you want, bird?" Sirius demands.

"Food, I'd wager." The blankets shift, and Sirius sees what might be a bleary eye. "It brought three packages, all the way from Majorca."

"Owlery," Sirius tells it shortly. "I don't have anything for you, you feathered prat," he adds, but the owl only coos again. He stands, throwing it out of his lap, and it takes wing just before hitting the floor. He follows it to the window, shutting out the brisk winter wind as soon as the owl clears the sill.

Remus has already burrowed under the blankets again, his pillow over his head. Shifting into Padfoot, Sirius pounces, because if he's awake, then it's only fair that Remus is, too. He finds a wrinkle in the blankets with his teeth and yanks, growling, and Remus pulls back, but Sirius wins, drawing the blankets down around Remus' feet. He latches onto the leg of Remus' pyjamas, tugging until Remus hits him square in the head with a pillow.

"You thought you had it bad with James' owl," Remus mutters. He waits until Padfoot changes into Sirius, then hits him in the head with the pillow again. "At least you didn't get mauled by a dog."

"If you'd just fed the thing, I wouldn't even be up," Sirius complains. "I don't even want to be up this early, but -- _presents_!"

"That will happen, on Christmas," Remus says lightly. Sirius slides off the bed to paw at the brightly coloured packages resting on the lid of Remus' trunk, and Remus chuckles.

"This one is for you," Sirius says, hefting a book-shaped mess of green wrapping. He turns it over and shakes it by his ear before tossing it to Remus. "From James." He picks up a shiny gold package, which is also book-shaped, but wrapped even more haphazardly. "This too."

"Peter?" Remus asks, catching it.

"Yes," Sirius says, shaking a blue and white wrapped box. "Good lad, Peter. Bought them in Hogsmeade last weekend and left them, instead of sending them at arse o'clock in the morning with a hungry owl."

"What did he get you?" Remus asks.

"Socks," Sirius replies, holding them up. They are Gryffindor colours, in stripes, and not at all to Sirius' tastes, but he supposes they'll do when his feet get cold at night. "You?"

"Crosswords," Remus says, waving something that looks like it came from the Muggle news-stand. "James got me a book."

"Surprising, that," Sirius quips. "Werewolf folklore, again?"

"Romania, this time," Remus explains. He opens it and flips through the first few pages, then sets it aside.

"You said he sent three packages," Sirius says. His own present from James is large and silvery, and he apparently hexed the bow, because Sirius can't get it untied.

"He also sent chocolates for McGonagall," Remus replies. "Truffles, I think. And I've hid them somewhere you'll never find them, so don't bother to look."

"Kissarses, both of you," Sirius mutters, yanking on the stubborn bow. "You got her something, too. I know you did."

"I bought her a scarf," Remus says simply. "And I saw you hanging around the hat pins at Gladrags, so I'm not the only kissarse in the room."

Sirius chooses to ignore that, and turns his attention back to James' present. He pulls on the bow hard, cursing James under his breath, and it gives with a loud snap.

"What did you get, then?" Remus asks. He opens another present, which is small, and neatly wrapped in red and pink paper. Sirius thinks it's from Evans, so he pretends not to see it for James' sake. James wouldn't like that, and for some reason, Sirius doesn't either, though he's not quite sure why.

"Dungbombs!" Sirius says brightly. It's the family-size box, which is just perfect -- a bloke can never have too many Dungbombs. "Stinkpellets, and a book on Muggle magic tricks." He lifts the book, and a small, cream-coloured card slips out from the pages. Sirius snatches it up. "And a p--"

"What?" Remus asks. His hands and lap are empty, and Sirius wonders what he did with Evans' present.

"A portkey ticket to Majorca," Sirius finishes.

"Oh," Remus says flatly. "When does it leave?"

"Half ten, from Hogsmeade," Sirius replies.

He finds Remus watching him when he looks up, and suddenly uncertain, he glances away quickly. He gropes around for his wand, and Banishes his presents to his trunk. Two are unopened -- a small, token gift from Regulus, and a card from his parents, but he's not interested. Regulus' gift is probably rubbish, and the card is likely the same as the Howler, only without the shouting.

"You'd better pack, then," Remus says. "Half ten is closer than it sounds, since it takes you forever to do anything."

"I'm not going," Sirius says simply, and he's suddenly, irrationally angry with James. James is his best friend, James is more his brother than Regulus ever was or ever will be, but Sirius doesn't like that James is making him decide like this, that James is making him choose between him and Remus.

"Don't be ridiculous," Remus says. He tosses back the blankets, and swings his skinny legs over the side of the bed. "I imagine Majorca is nice right now, better than this cold and wet." He waves toward the window, which displays a solid, steel-grey sky behind a light layer of frost. Remus cocks his head to the side, his teeth creasing his lower lip. "I'll be fine."

"I'm staying," Sirius mumbles, standing. His steps on a bit of discarded wrapping, the stiff gold stuff from Peter's present, and it crinkles loudly under his heel.

"Sirius."

Remus stretches, shirtless, and Sirius stares, because it's new, different. Remus has always been shy about his body, embarrassed about what the wolf has done to him. Only recently -- since the others mastered the Animagus transformation, since they've seen Remus' skin stretch and his bones snap -- has he let his guard down. He's too thin, his ribs just visible, and scars criss-cross his torso, some new and pink, some silvered with age.

"I want to stay here," Sirius says, mostly to his feet. Remus needs to stop talking, needs to stop asking questions, because Sirius doesn't want to explain. Sirius isn't sure he can. He sometimes finds Remus more interesting than James, sometimes finds he just needs to be wherever Remus is, but he doesn't really know why.

Sirius looks up, and Remus is standing in the centre of the room, holding a pair of Sirius' trousers in his hand. His pyjamas hang low and crookedly on his hips, and the cuff of one leg is turned up funny from when Padfoot had been chewing on it.

"School starts up again in three days," Remus says shortly. His voice is a bit tart -- the tone he uses when James is treating him like he's going to break, and Sirius' fingers clench at his sides. "I can manage without you."

That hurts, a sharp, stinging pain, hits Sirius like a slap in the face. "Fine," he mumbles, tearing his trousers from Remus' hand. He kicks his trunk, roaring a spell, and it opens so violently the lid rebounds off the edge of his and bed slams closed. He pushes it open again, and digs the portkey ticket out of the book.

"Sirius." Remus' hand finds his shoulder, fingers pulling at his shirt, but Sirius shrugs him off. "Sirius."

"What?"

"If you want to stay, then stay," Remus says quietly. "I just... I don't want you to stay just because I'm here."

"Maybe that's why I wanted to stay!"

Sirius flushes then, heat prickling over his arms, his legs, his cheeks. Remus won't look at him; he's studying the floor, but his hand doesn't leave Sirius' shoulder. Sirius looks up, and Remus seems close, so close Sirius can hear him breathing, and Sirius isn't sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

He tells himself when their lips meet that Remus kissed him, but he knows that's a lie. It's clumsy and horribly awkward -- their teeth clack, Remus' nose is in the way, and their mouths are tired and sleep-stale, but Remus' fingers tighten in his shirt, and Sirius decides it's brilliant. He reaches for Remus, his thumb brushing over the raised edge of a scar as he pulls him closer by the waist, and the ticket to Majorca flutters quietly to the floor.

**Sunday, 3 July 1977, 5.36 PM**

His mother's eyes are the same colour as his brother's, the same colour as his own -- storm-grey that flashes silver, hard and cold. He can't remember what colour his father's were, but he imagines they were the same, knows it doesn't matter. His father has been dead a long time, and his mother has always been the one who ran this household.

Regulus hovers behind her, like a ghost, a shadow. He has the lift of their mother's chin, and his hair is neat and clipped short, unlike Sirius', but Sirius can see himself in Regulus' face. Regulus could be him, if he was a bit taller, a bit broader, if he didn't belong to her.

"I will not have it!" she spits, her eyes narrowing. Regulus flinches just slightly, and the words cut Sirius like a knife. "I will not tolerate this kind if disrespect in this house!"

His dress robes are immaculate, starched and pressed, but they are too short, untailored since he was home last summer. They miss their mark by three or four inches, displaying frayed Muggle jeans that spill messily over scuffed Doc Martens. His mother's mouth sets in a thin line, her lips white, bloodless, and he wonders what she would say if she could see the Sex Pistols t-shirt hiding under the heavy black folds, thinks somehow, she can.

She slaps him, the crack of skin against skin loud in the strange silence. Heat and redness bloom under her palm, and she snatches her hand back, as if burned, as if touching him dirtied her. She has small hands, the same size and shape as Mrs Potter's, but she wields them so differently. James' mother uses hers to pet Sirius' hair and stroke his cheeks, but his own mother uses hers to mark him, brand him.

At his feet, Kreacher rips at the hem of his robes with small, childlike scissors. He works silently, a needle and thread waiting next to him on the floor. His hands shake, proving he's just as scared as Regulus, as scared as Sirius would be if he still cared.

"You are an embarrassment!" she shouts. Sirius' bedroom, normally large, shrinks with every one of her words, swallowing them whole. "You are a disgrace to this family! Running around with blood-traitors and weaklings! With half-breeds!"

She stalks toward him, eyes flashing silver and cold, and anger colours her cheeks, the red spots bright against her ghostly skin. Her hand twitches at her side, and Sirius waits, bracing himself for another blow. He refuses to wince or cower, refuses to give her the satisfaction.

"I had hope for you, even after your _Sorting_!" She spits the word out like a vulgarity, harsh and grating. "I had known you would be under undesirable influences, but I had thought you would remember who you are! I had thought you would have some respect for yourself, and your family!"

Her hand twitches again, fisting in her robes, and Sirius smiles. He looks down at her, slouching, sixteen years of admonitions about good posture echoing inside his mind.

"You don't want to hit me," Sirius says quietly. "You don't know where I've been."

She gasps, her hands flying to her mouth instead of his face, and Regulus closes his eyes. The sharp hiss of ripping fabric steals the moment, and he glances down, finds Kreacher looking up at him, mortified, his sallow fingers thrust through a sizeable hole in his robes.

"Out, out!" she shrieks, her face burning scarlet. Pulling her wand, she kicks the house-elf, and he rolls across the floor, stopping against Sirius' bed. The crack of Apparation comes a heartbeat before her spell, and it hits the carpet, scorching it black.

"And you, _filth_ ," she continues, rounding on Sirius. The tip of her wand looms just few inches from his face, but strangely, the cold chill creeping across his skin is emptiness rather than fear. "You are no son of mine!"

Something inside Sirius cracks, shattering like glass, but it doesn't hurt as much as he thinks it probably should. His mother watches him cautiously, mouth parted, more vitriol waiting on the curve of her lower lip, and Sirius realises that is the nicest thing she's ever said to him.

"No, I'm not."

She gasps again, a sound echoed by Regulus and her fingers tighten on her wand. A long moment stretches between them, and Sirius watches the words resting on her tongue shift into a curse.

" _Expelliarmus_ ," he says easily, and her wand clatters to the ground. These last few years, she has depended more on her wit than her magic, hurling insults instead of hexes, and it shows. " _Petrificus Totalus_."

Her body hits the floor with an oddly soft sound, and Sirius is struck by how small she is. She's thin, almost frail; Sirius remembers that he was taller than her by the time he was twelve, and now that she's silent, unarmed, Sirius wonders why he was ever afraid of her.

Regulus hangs in the doorway like a shadow, his eyes wide and his mouth open, and once again, Sirius sees his own face. He and Regulus haven't been close since they were children, haven't really spoken since Sirius was eleven, but a sharp, twisting ache spreads through Sirius' chest, and he wonders if things would have been different if Regulus had been Sorted away from this madness.

"I didn't make it very strong," Sirius says. He sweeps the room with his wand, and the handful of things strewn about sail toward his trunk. "She'll be out ten minutes, at the most."

"You're leaving." Regulus' voice is flat, and tight. It's not a question.

Sirius glances at their mother's body, still motionless, then back up at Regulus. "Well, I've got to now, don't I?"

Regulus' head moves strangely, as if he's torn between shaking it and nodding, and his mouth works, but nothing comes out.

"You should go, too," Sirius says. He shuts his trunk with a snap and hauls it up by the handle. "You shouldn't stay here. She's barking."

"I've nowhere else to go," Regulus says simply. "It's not like that, in Slytherin. I don't have _friends_." He says it the same way his mother said Sorting, like it's distasteful, like it sours his tongue.

"You can come with me." The words are out before Sirius can stop them -- he's not sure Regulus is welcome where he is going. James has never liked Regulus, but Sirius has never given him a reason to.

"Can I." Also flat, toneless. Regulus' face could be carved from stone. "Somehow I doubt that."

"You're my brother."

Regulus pauses, pressing his lips together. "No, I'm not."

That should hurt too, but it doesn't, because Sirius knows Regulus is right. James is his brother, has been for the last six years.

Sirius turns, Summoning his broom. The house is eager to be rid of him -- the window opens without so much as a spell -- and Sirius is happy to oblige it.

**Friday, 13 January 1978, 10.13 PM**

Sirius waits in a cupboard on the second floor. It has more dust than brooms, much of it up Sirius' nose, and the light from his wand glows a sickly yellow, hazy and clouded with greyish motes. There's scarcely space to turn around, and when Sirius leans forward to peer at the map, he knocks a mop into a stack of metal pails.

He searches for James' dot, staring at the sepia lines so long they bleed together, twisting and curling across the parchment. Along the way he gets distracted, pulled in by the other things the map has to show him -- Snivellus pacing his common room, Slughorn on the way to the kitchen, Shacklebolt in Greenhouse Four with Hestia Jones.

Sirius expects James on the fourth floor, but finds him on the third. His dot hovers near the staircase, and Sirius fancies it's quivering with impatience, anticipation. Smiling, Sirius pulls his small, square mirror from his pocket and holds it up to his face.

"Clear," he whispers.

"Are you sure?" James' voice is thin and strained.

"Yeah," Sirius replies. "Filch is in his office, and the cat's in Ravenclaw."

"What about Remus and Peter?" James asks.

"Fine," Sirius says, glancing at the map. "They're in place." This isn't exactly true; Peter's dot lingers two corridors away from his mark, but it's making slow, steady progress in the right direction.

James goes silent, and then his dot moves, hurrying up the stairs. It takes a left, pausing just a few feet from the landing. Sirius glances at Remus' dot, which circles the intersection of two corridors on the ground floor. It halts for a long moment, and Sirius' breath catches. If Remus casts the spell right, everyone in Slytherin and Ravenclaw will walk out of their common rooms in the morning and go up the stairs instead of going to breakfast -- right to the window James is currently hanging out of.

Peter's dot hovers shy of its mark, hiding behind a suit of armour. Sirius frowns at it, but he understands -- James has one of the mirrors, Sirius has the map, and Remus has the cloak, but Peter is flying blind. Turning into Wormtail protects him from Filch, but it won't be much help against Filch's cat.

"Done," James hisses.

"Did it work?" Sirius asks. He sneezes, and his elbow jerks back, jostling a box of what smells like Elbert's Self-Soaping Cleansing Cloths.

"I think so," James replies. "It hit the lake. I saw ripples, and that."

Sirius smiles. Tomorrow, just before breakfast, the Merpeople will surface and treat the students to a full chorus of Wizards Do It With Their Wands. Slytherin and Ravenclaw will be there, and if Peter gets into position and manages the spell, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor will as well.

"Can I go back?" James asks.

"Yeah," Sirius says, studying the map. "Remus is already halfway there. Filch is at the library, with the cat. Go toward Hufflepuff and take the back stairs."

"Right," James says. "You done your bit, then?"

"I'm about to," Sirius replies. "I wanted to get you sorted, first."

Sirius tucks the mirror away as James' face winks out, and glances at the map. He finds Remus' dot back in Gryffindor, waiting outside the portrait hole, and Peter's dot moves away from its position so fast he must be scurrying as Wormtail. With Filch and his cat still in the Library, Sirius' own corridor is clear. Folding the map, he opens the door and steps out into the hallway.

He hurries down the stairs to the ground floor, and turns down a corridor leading to the main entrance. He casts a spell on the door -- one designed to keep the professors away. It won't take long for them to work through it, but it's enough to keep them inside until the Merpeople are done.

Footsteps sound at the end of the corridor, echoing off the walls, and Sirius whirls around, shaking the map open with one hand. The cat hasn't moved, but somehow, Filch has managed to get halfway across the castle in a matter of moments. Filch turns the corner just as Sirius tears off down the hall, and he hears Filch shout, knows Filch is chasing him.

Sirius skids to a halt in front of the stairs to Gryffindor, catching a glimpse of Filch as his fingers curl around the banister. He takes them two at a time, his shoes squeaking loudly on the polished marble. Three flights up, his chest tightens, making his breath come short, but he presses on, excitement and fear coursing hot through his veins.

He starts the fourth flight, the staircase swings, throwing him against the banister. He stumbles, his feet slipping between two support posts, his stomach twisting as he starts to slide down and off. He reaches out, fingers scrambling for purchase, and the staircase swings back, slamming home with a click that thunders in his ears.

Bracing his weight on his arms, he pulls himself up, and his elbow scrapes over the map. It flies off the stairs, unfurling, and his fingers chase it, but he catches only air.

Sirius remembers the look on James' face when the spells worked, the glimmer in Peter's eyes as he told them the secrets Wormtail found. He remembers the way Remus' wrist curved as he inked the lines, and he closes his eyes, unwilling to watch two years of work and seven years of friendship disappear.

He hates that he's the one who lost it, hates that he's given away their secret, just like he gave Moony's secret to Snape. He hears the soft sound of parchment brushing the floor, hears Filch stop and make a curious noise, and he pulls his wand.

"Mischief Managed," he whispers.

And he hopes.


End file.
